


Part of Your World

by WillowPerpetua



Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: F/M, M/M, POV Outsider, POV Second Person, Past Bucky Barnes/Steve Rogers, Slow Build, so you wanna be an avenger?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-27
Updated: 2015-02-05
Packaged: 2018-03-09 06:21:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,998
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3239513
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WillowPerpetua/pseuds/WillowPerpetua
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alright, so maybe you’re a fan. That is fine.<br/>Maybe you go to a convention every once in a while, and who could blame you?<br/>Perhaps you have watched The Avengers so many times that you wore a hole into the fabric of reality from your own universe into theirs. It’s a mistake any fan could make.<br/>All your dreams have come true. Your favorite superheroes are real<br/>…and you’re stuck in the world with them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

      The landing knocks the air out of you. One moment, you are sitting on the couch, as comfortable as you please. The next moment, a blast of blue light, a roar like a jet engine, and your ass has landed on a street in New York City. At least, this must be New York. You have seen New York in hundreds of movies. It always looked like this, but cleaner somehow, without the smell.  
  
      Standing up and rubbing your hip, you look around to make sure that nobody noticed you appear out of nowhere. No one seems to share your rising sense of dread and panic, but at least nobody is adding insult to injury by laughing. You are, after all, in a ratty tee-shirt and a pair of pajama pants.  
  
      A newspaper stand down the block offers a healthy dose of reality. You run toward it and squint at the date on the front page of the Washington Post. It says that this is 2012. That can’t be right. You shake your head, because of course, you have crash landed in New York, but it cannot possibly be 2012. That is just preposterous. The New York Times says the same thing. Somewhere in the back of your mind, you vaguely remember that cover of National Geographic. This feels terribly like _de ja vu._  
  
      “Excuse me?” You ask the pimply young man behind the counter.  
  
      “Yeah?” He says, playing with his phone, sounding thoroughly disinterested.  
  
      “Can I please borrow your phone for a second?”  
  
      “No.” He says without looking up.  
  
      “Please?” You ask again, feeling desperation creep up on you. “It’s an emergency.” If this doesn’t count as an emergency, then nothing does.  
  
      “Nuh uh.” He says shaking his head.  
  
      “Okay, how about this,” You say, taking off your slippers—yes, the purple ones with the bunny faces—and placing them on the counter. The newspaper guy looks up and makes a face. “Now I can’t run away with your phone. Okay? If you let me borrow it for two seconds, I’ll leave you alone and take these things with me.” You say, gesturing to your slippers, which are obviously causing the guy a pain. “Deal?”  
  
      “Fine. Okay.” He says, defeated. Phone now in hand, you are stricken with indecision. Who to call? Your home would be the obvious choice, but that would be miles away, and you need to get somewhere warm and safe, preferably somewhere with food and _internet_ now. On the other hand—Holy shit! Your eyes fall back on the newspapers. You had been so intent on searching for the date that your brain had not registered the image on the front of each of the papers. Make no mistake, that is Iron Man, a very real, very live, Iron Man, lifting a helicopter.  
  
      Perhaps you hit your head very, very hard. Maybe this is all some kind of lucid fever-dream. Maybe somebody slipped you acid? You really wouldn’t know. You’ve seen the Avengers forty-seven times. You’re not exactly the kind of person people are lining up to drop acid with.  
  
      Still, somehow, your fingers know exactly which numbers to press and exactly which sequence to press them in, and suddenly the dial tone has switched to a ringing sound. A voice that you know as well as any of your friend’s answers.    
  
      “Director Fury?” your voice quivers, but you hold tight to the phone as you gulp down your nerves and swallow your fears.  
  
      “Who is this?” That familiar voice responds. “How did you get this number?” He demands. It is now or never. Pull out the big guns.  
  
      “I know your number the same way I know that you recently found Captain America alive.”  
  
      “Alright, you have my interest.” He says. You know that the scanners are tracking your location right now. They will find you in a matter of seconds. You straighten your shirt, as rumpled as it is, and walk into the frame of a traffic camera. If you’re not wildly off base, S.H.I.E.L.D. has a visual on you now.  
  
      “If you want to know more, you’re going to have to come get me. Please don’t bother sending a Strike team. I’m unarmed. This is me, turning myself in.” You hang up.  
  
      You just hung up on Director Fury. Your whole body buzzes with adrenaline like you stuck your finger in a light socket. You hand the phone back to the boy behind the counter, suddenly feeling much more confident about your bunny slippers, which you put back on your chilly feet.  
  
      “What was that about Captain America?” He asks with too much interest.  
  
      “That’s my dog.” You say over your shoulder as a black car pulls over and a door pops open for you.

***

      You ride in silence in the back of the car, taking big, steadying breaths of air. At first, you try to keep track of which turns you make, which streets you drive down. Ultimately, you give it up as a bad job. You would be lost no matter where you went, and there is no running away now. S.H.I.E.L.D. has your number. You know valuable information about superheroes. You know information about the future. Somewhere in your brain, you know information that you did not even know that you knew. Thinking about it makes your head hurt.  
  
      From the outside, the S.H.I.E.L.D. building doesn’t look like anything special. It looks like a high rise. Everything is a high rise. You’re in Manhattan. The car and its silent driver pull into the garage, where two heavily armed and armored guards are waiting to escort you. It doesn’t occur to you to run until they each have a hand on your back, and by then you know how much that is not an option. Their touch is light, but firm, as if to remind you that you are welcome but certainly not free to leave. You feel your pulse accelerate, pounding in your fingertips.  
  
      You are escorted into the lobby of a large and impressive building. The glass windows let in as much sunlight as they can, and the light fixtures overhead are opulent, to say the least. You feel like your slovenliness is being broadcast to the world right now with your pajamas and your greasy hair. You really had been meaning to take a shower.  
  
      All of these thoughts are knocked out of your head when she exits the elevator and walks into your view. You notice her hair first, red and wavy. The look on her face is one of polite interest. She gives nothing away. If you did not know her, had not spent hours watching her on screen, reading comic books about her, hypothesizing about her history and her future, you would never guess what she is hiding behind her smile.  
  
      They sent the Black Widow to be your welcome wagon. Man, you sure pushed the right buttons.  
  
      “Good afternoon.” She says, holding out a hand. You shake it, willing yourself to remain calm. You can tell that you are doing a bad job by the way she raises her eyebrows at you. “My name is Nadine Roman. Please come with me.” She says to you. She gives a pointed look to each of your guards. “I’ll take it from here boys.” She says with a nod. They turn and leave without a word to either of you. Without a backward glance, Black Widow sweeps toward the elevator from whence she emerged. You follow and it is clear to you that Natasha Romanoff will be your judge, jury, and quite possibly, executioner. All it will take is an elevator ride for you to plead your case. You know how she works. Your only advantage is that she does not know this about you yet.  
  
      “So,” She says. She smiles in a pleasant, friendly way that looks out of place, and waits for you to go on. You clear your throat. This is your opportunity. Don’t blow it, you tell yourself.  
  
      “Well, first of all,” you say, “it’s an honor to meet you.” You know this is the wrong thing to say as soon as the words are out of your mouth. She does not want to hear about her, she wants to hear about you. “Look.” You say, dropping your hands to your sides and giving up all pretenses that this is a normal day for you. “This is terrifying. I woke up this morning as a girl who couldn’t get her life together. Now I’m a girl who can’t get my life together, except that there are superheroes, and intimidating government organizations, and big guys with guns, and I really, really don’t want to die.”  
  
      “So you called the Director of S.H.I.E.L.D. on his private line?” Natasha Romanov says.  
  
      “I think the best way to avoid dying is to make friends in high places.” You say. This earns a slightly crooked smile from Natasha. It is as genuine as Natasha gets. She raises her eyebrows again and gives you an appraising look. “I also want to help,” you go on “if I can. I mean, I know some things that might be useful.”  
  
      “Like?”  
  
      “Well, I know that Bruce Banner is hiding out in India right now, working on his yoga. Keeping calm and carrying on. All that.” You say.  
  
      “S.H.I.E.L.D. knows that.” Natasha says. “That is not new information to us.”  
  
      “Yes. I know you keep tabs on him.” You say.  
  
      “Go on.” She says, crossing her arms. This is the game: giving away just enough information that they understand your value, but not enough information that you spook them. Keep quiet about Clint. Don’t say a damn word about Natasha’s history (or her future). The lightbulb goes on above your head. If this is 2012, and the papers weren’t reporting on the Battle of New York yet, then the last movie that just happened was Thor.    
  
      “The, uh, event in New Mexico,” you begin. Natasha uncrosses her arms. She leans in slightly, just close enough to you that you understand that you struck gold. “That was the result of interference from, well, for lack of a better word, aliens. S.H.I.E.L.D. found an 0-8-4 in the desert and it turned out that it came from Asgard, right? It was Thor’s hammer.” You finish speaking with your eyes wide. This has all been a test and you are not sure if you passed or failed. Natasha looks over your shoulder at the camera mounted on the ceiling behind you with a stony expression.  
  
      “Coulson.” She says, “I’m handing this over to you.”  
  
      The elevator doors open with a ding. You feel yourself breathe again as if your lungs never saw oxygen during the ride up. Now that you are able to stand a little farther away from her, you appreciate Natasha’s interrogation methods. The way that she gets people to tell on themselves is graceful. And terrifying. Somehow, you imagine you will have nightmares about that elevator ride for the rest of your life.  
  
      “Thank you.” You say, nodding respectfully to her. “Again, it was an honor to meet you, Ms. Romanoff.” You say just as Agent Phil Coulson rounds the corner. You smile a little to yourself as you see the surprise register in Black Widow’s face. That is something you don’t see every day.

      Agent Coulson barrels down the hallway toward the two of you. He does not smile, but you feel a surge of companionship toward him. You trust that face.  You smile at him and he slows his pace by just a fraction of a beat, letting a touch of confusion drift across his features, as if he is trying to work out if he knows you. He doesn’t, although you certainly know him. It would help to remember this and keep in mind that if you want to have him as an ally, you have to earn it first. You like Agent Coulson because he is generous and kind, but he is smart and he chooses his friends carefully.  
  
      “Good afternoon. I’m agent Coulson.” He says.  
  
      “Yes. I know.” You say, nodding and offering your hand. “It is an honor to meet you, Agent.” This goes over better with Coulson than it did with Black Widow. He takes your hand and returns your smile.  
  
      “I would like to be able to say the same, but we don’t know who you are.” He says, cocking his head to the side and releasing your hand.  
  
      This bruises your ego just a bit. It is not that you feel that a secret group of superheroes should necessarily know who you are; after all, you are a college student of middling success who spends too much money on action figures and have yet to accomplish much of note on your own. On the other hand, nobody wants to hear that they are unremarkable. You remind yourself that this is a good thing. Remaining mysterious is keeping you in S.H.I.E.L.D.’s good graces for the time being.  
  
      “Let’s talk.” You say, simply and politely.  
  
      “We can do that.” Coulson says, leading the way down the hall.

***

  
      The interrogation room is comfortable. The chairs are upholstered, leather armchairs. The designer coffee table between you has a stack of magazines that add a comfortable distraction. The lighting is soft and relaxing. Make no mistake, this is an interrogation room.  
  
      “Alright, ma’am. Please tell us who you are and how you have come by such sensitive information.” Agent Coulson says, once you are all settled in. You glance at the large, ornate mirror on the opposite wall, suddenly sure that Director Fury is standing right behind it.  
  
      “Before I do, let’s discuss demands.”  
Coulson and Romanoff share a look. This doesn’t surprise them, or fill them with the same kind of rebellious thrill that it does you. For them, it is another day at the office.  
  
      “Demands?” Coulson asks.  
  
      “Okay, requests.” You say, softening your tone.  
  
      “What are your requests?”  
  
      “I don’t want my family implicated. They aren’t involved in any way.” You say. It’s true. Your mom has been trying to get you off the couch for weeks. She has been sending you job listings twice a day and tapping nervously at your bedroom door at three in the afternoon when you’re not out of bed. It has been a struggle, but the fault is not hers. You have tried to tell her this much. The least you can do is not have her house raided by a tactical team from a secret government agency.  
  
      “Okay.” Coulson says, nodding. “If we can verify that, your family will be left alone, under our protection.” He says in a comforting voice. You shake your head, no.  
  
      “That’s not going to work. Leave them _alone,_ alone. No protection detail. Just leave them out of it.” You say. Coulson nods.  
  
      “Let’s move on. Any other requests?” He asks. You think for a moment. Staring into the mirror beyond him. You see yourself, small and young. Your features are sharpened by the stress of the day, eyes larger than normal, with deep gray circles under them. Your mouth is a thin line. Greasy hair hangs in limp waves around your face, the blue dye almost washed out, revealing yourself for the brunette that you always have been. You should be getting ready for your Gender Studies midterm. You should be applying for one of the jobs that have been piling up in your inbox. You are too young for this. Nevertheless, here you are.  
  
      “I could use a change of clothes.” You say. This makes Agent Coulson chuckle. He smiles at you and you feel reassured. It was the right thing to say. It was an honest thing to say.  
  
      “We’ll get right on that for you. Excuse us for a moment.” Coulson and Romanov leave you alone in the silence. You pick up a magazine and flip through to an article about Tony Stark. You don’t feel the desire to read it, you don’t imagine you have the capacity to concentrate that hard right now even if you wanted to, but just seeing his photograph among all the ads for watches and airlines gives you a thrill. It’s real. He is real. You shake your head and flip through to another page, staring hard at an ad for golf clubs. The door opens again, shocking you out of your trance.  
  
      “We can meet your requests.” Agent Coulson says, taking his seat again. “On the condition that you tell us exactly who you are.”  
  
      “My name is Amanda Powell.” You say. After all of this, your own name feels so anticlimactic. You give them your address, the name of your school, your social security number, your phone number, and then you wait. The silence fills the room like a balloon, sooner or later it will explode from the pressure. A sharp knock at the door follows after what feels like a thin slice of eternity. Coulson answers.  
  
      When he comes back into your line of vision, he carries a gun. It is not pointed at you, Coulson wouldn’t do that unless the situation demanded it, but you know that he will use it if he needs to. You look to Romanov and see that she is wound tight, battle ready.  
  
      “Let’s have the truth this time.” Agent Coulson says, his voice steady but firm.  
  
      “The truth?” You ask. You feel a sick, your stomach is doing somersaults.  
  
      “There is no such person as Amanda Powell.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which you acclimate to the Marvel Cinematic Universe,

      “There is no such person as Amanda Powell.” Coulson says. The words spin inside your head over and over. Of course there is such person. You are sitting right there, right in front of him. You look around, helplessly, for answers, for somebody to jump out from behind the couch and shout “April Fool!” but no such luck. All you have is yourself, and it would appear that yourself is not much to have because you don’t technically exist. 

      “Coulson.” Romanoff says. 

      “Now, you are going to tell us exactly how you have come by the information that you have shared with us today, and what you would like in exchange for your silence.” 

      “Coulson.” Romanoff says again. He turns to face her, expression drawn up tight. They communicate silently and for just a moment, you wonder if there is something telepathic happening here. Then you realize that they are listening to their ear pieces. This feels like a break. You lean back in your seat and run your hands through your hair. 

      “Fine.” You say. You don’t exist. That means that there is nobody to save you, nobody to care where you are or what happens. You have to save yourself. “The Tesseract.” You say, raising your voice and both hands. 

      Both Coulson and Romanoff turn to look at you, each with an ere of one trying to hold themselves together. You hear a door slam somewhere nearby, and later, the sound of a pair of heavy boots slamming their way down the hall in your direction. The door is wrenched open, and you swivel in your seat to stare up at the imposing figure of Director Nicholas J. Fury in all his glory. 

      “Ms. Powell.” He addresses you. “We spoke on the phone earlier.” He says, swooping down into a seat across the table from you. Coulson and Romanoff follow his lead. “Agent,” he says to Coulson, “You can put that gun away.” Something inside of your gut unclenches. You know you just upped the ante. This just became a significantly higher level case. Fury turns his attention back on you. “What do you know about the Tesseract?” He asks. 

      “I don’t know everything.” You start. He frowns. “I mean,” you start over, “I don’t know everything that I know. When I got here, I didn’t know that I knew your number, y’know?” This sounds terrible. You are rambling. You try clearing your throat. 

      “Go on.” He says. 

      “The tesseract is a lot more than you think it is.” You say. “You have a scientist working on it now, right? The one from New Mexico, Dr. Selvig. That’s good, but you should put a stronger protective detail on him, like yesterday.” You say. “He is in danger.” Fury snaps his fingers at Romanoff, and you can tell from her expression that if anybody but the Director himself did that, they would have a much different reaction on their hands, but in this case, she gets up and leaves the room without question, already putting a hand to her earpiece. 

      “The Tesseract is an energy source, and it is unstable.” You go on. Fury’s expression is perfectly maintained, but he leans forward just the slightest but. “Have there been any problems yet?” You ask. You don’t really expect an answer and you don’t get one. “Okay, that’s fine. That’s good. I’m just saying that there will be, and when there are, I will know more.” 

      “Are you withholding information, Ms. Powell?” Fury asks. 

      “Well,” you start. “It’s not that simple. It is going to take me some time to figure out what I know. In the meantime, I’m asking for the basics: protection. Keep me from falling into the wrong hands. Help me to figure out what is inside my head. For the love of all that is holy, don’t threaten me with any more guns, okay?” Both the Director and the Agent turn and look at each other. Their expressions give away little to you, but they seem to understand one another clearly. 

“Deal.” Fury says, and you feel your heart do acrobatics in your ribcage. “We take you under our wing, and I want to know everything that you do, _when_ you know it. No head games, Ms. Powell.” He says, pointing a finger in your direction, his face severe. You nod your understanding. “I want you in a tracker at all times. You don’t go anywhere without us knowing about it. Understood?” 

      “That sounds fair.” You say. 

      “Very well. Agent Coulson,” Director Fury says, rising from his seat, “Find the lady something to wear.”

***

  
      This S.H.I.E.L.D. building is no Triskelion, you think to yourself as you ride the elevator up to the 28th floor with Agent Coulson, but it certainly does have its merits. There are apartments, furnished, comfortable apartments which range far beyond the scope that any of your student loans could pay for, on the upper floors of the building. They exist mostly for the convenience of the more dedicated S.H.I.E.L.D. workers who need a residence in New York. It would appear that they also serve for short-term housing for mysterious sources of knowledge on all-things superhero.   
  
      A staff member meets you at the door to number 2823 and hands you a keycard. You cannot help but notice with a thrill of glee that the lanyard has the S.H.I.E.L.D. logo emblazoned on it. When you reach out to accept it, she slips a bracelet around your wrist.   
  
      “Um,” you say, searching for the right word to use, looking down at the thin metal band around your right wrist. You look back up, but she has already pivoted on her unreasonably high heels and strode away from you.   
  
      “Your tracker.” Agent Coulson explains. “This should be everything.” He says, opening your door for you. “You may not leave the building.” He reminds you.   
  
      “Can I leave the room?” You ask, looking around. “You’re going to know where I am, anyway, right?” You hold up your hand to examine your new accessory.   
  
      “Yes.” Coulson says. “You can go anywhere your keycard permits. Just—“  
  
      “—Yeah, yeah. Stay in the building.” You say. You don’t add the obvious question, _where else would I go?_ But you certainly feel it.   
  
      “You made the right call.” Coulson says. He radiates sincerity, and you feel his gratitude. “Turning yourself in like that.” He elaborates. “A lot of people might have run.”   
  
      “Thank you.” You say. There is a prickling sensation behind your nose and a warmth spreading just behind your eyes. You cannot let Agent Phil Coulson see you cry on your first day. You swallow that lump in your throat. “Yeah. I’ll just… I’m going to take a nap.” You say, rushing to get the words out before shutting the door. From the other side of the door, you can hear Coulson’s muffled voice announce into his comm   
  
      “ _Know It All is secure.”_ A big, juicy tear rolls down your cheek, but an irrepressible giggle escapes your lips at the same moment. The code name they gave you is Know It All. It figures.

  
      The small kitchen is stocked with food. You check the cabinets and find dishes and glassware. Inside the refrigerator, there are some basics like milk and juice. There is nothing thrilling here, but you couldn’t eat a bite if you tried. You search around the living room. It is unassuming, containing some comfortable seating, a television, the minimum furniture required in order to be furnished. It feels bare, but not sterile.   
  
      The bedroom is another matter. A running leap and floppy landing tells you that you have found both the largest and most comfortable bed you have had the honor to call your own. This, alone, feels worth the strain on your mental capacity that this afternoon has brought. Glancing around the room, you notice that the closet door has been left open for you.   
  
      Your request was, indeed, met. They gave you clothes, just not clothes that you would ever be inclined to put on your body. You take a hanger off of the rack and hold it as if the garment draped across it were a poisonous snake. These are, without a doubt, business clothes. These are suits. They are color coordinated. Just one item here looks more expensive than your entire wardrobe combined. You would not know what to do with yourself once you put one of these on. Run for office? That’s the kind of thing you do in this sort of outfit.   
  
      You nudge one of the impractically high and iridescently reflective patent leather heals over with your toe.  Just trying to walk on a flat, level surface in a pair of these would result in catastrophe. With a sigh of relief, you spot a pair of more sensible boots, offered at the back of the closet. You don’t bother to wonder how they knew your size. This is S.H.I.E.L.D., after all.

      An hour later, you are climbing the walls. You have tried out the new bed, given up on sleeping, looked out the window, paced around the kitchen and living room, conquered the unfamiliar shower, and put on the most casual suit that you found in the closet. What else is there to do? You find yourself tapping your foot anxiously for a solid minute before your body moves without conscious permission from your brain. You grab the keycard and you’re out the door. 

      Your feet seem to know where to take you. The elevator is just down the hall, of course, but as you glance up and down the hall, you think through the layout of the building as if you have studied the blueprints at great length. You know which floor houses the gym, where to find the café, and where the conveniently accessible but somewhat hush-hush media room is.   
  
      You use your keycard to access the right floor and head directly to the media room. This is nothing at all like records, which is nothing like storage, which is nothing like the secret records or storage, but it does contain a fair amount of data that anybody with access to the building can use. Most importantly, this room has computers. You know that it is a trick of the light, or perhaps your imagination, but you could swear you see a feint glow around the monitor and hear a heavenly choir when you take your seat in front of a computer. The other quiet, focused workers glance at you out of the corner of their eyes when you sit down. You   
wave at the camera in the corner of the room.   
  
      “I just want to use Google.” You say aloud. “Everybody cool with that?” You are haughtily ignored by everyone in the room, but you could swear that you see the goon in the blue sweater a few rows away relax slightly.  

They were right.   
You don’t exist.   
  
      Your Facebook is gone. You can’t get into your bank account. Everything is a dead end. You type in the names of your parents and come up with nothing. The street view of your address looks completely different. Even the article from the local newspaper last year about your self-published zines is missing. Everything is missing. Everything is wrong.   
  
      You get up in a hurry, and push your way through the door without looking where you are going. You run headlong into a wall of muscle.   
  
      “Sorry,” You say, looking up and wiping one treacherous tear away from the corner of your eye before it can embarrass you. You have already done too much crying today as it is.   
  
      “No, excuse me—wait, are you alright?” It is a deep, sonorous voice. You would know that voice anywhere. That voice is fireworks and apple pie. You look up into the face of Steve Rogers and brace for impact. If anything should throw you into the deep end, it should be this.   
  
      You open your mouth to reply but nothing comes out. You have been star struck before—when you were five and your parents took you to Disneyland and you stood in line for an hour to meet Mickey—and it felt exactly like this. Right now, the window of opportunity for this first impression is narrowing, and Steve Rogers is looking at you with growing concern. _Has anyone ever given themselves a concussion on his abs before?_ You wonder. It seems possible. You did head-butt him pretty hard, after all.   
  
      “Not really.” You say. That is not what you are supposed to say. You are supposed to say “I’m fine, thanks.” and let him get on with his day. The thing is, you are not alright, and after that search online, and the day you’re having, and the clothes that you are wearing, you don’t really know who you are anymore. You must look as bad as you feel, because Steve Rogers catches your eye with his own—and man they are blue—and gives you a smile.   
  
      “Hey.” He says. “Do you have a second for a cup of coffee?”

  
      The elevator door closes and the two of you stand in silence. It is a long silence that stretches most of the way down to the ground level.   
  
      “So what do you—“ he begins.  
  
      “How—“ You start at the same moment. You both break off into silence again, this time made more awkward by the interruption.   
  
  
      The café is part of the building. Technically, you have not broken any rules. You haven’t left. It does make you feel a little twitchy, though, until you are safely seated and nobody has rushed at you with their guns raised. Steve buys two cups of coffee and returns to your table.   
  
      “Really,” you say after burning your tongue on a rushed sip, “Thank you so much.”   
  
      “It’s no problem.” Steve says, looking around, nodding his head.  
  
      “So I’m guessing Coulson told you to track me down.” You say, fiddling with the sleeve on your coffee cup. Steve raises his eyebrows and his shoulders simultaneously, opening his mouth to protest.  
  
      “Why would you think that?” He asks you after a pause that lasts a moment too long.   
  
      “Because,” you say before another sip of coffee. “You’re Steve Rogers and you just asked a girl you have never met before out to coffee.” You shrug. “If I didn’t know you better, I’d say you had orders. Otherwise, no way would that have happened.” Steve leans back in his chair and brings his hands up to run through his hair. “I know.” You say after a beat of silence. “It’s weird, but I figured I would rather not do you the disservice of lying to you.”   
  
      “I think that makes you the only one around here.” Steve says, lifting his cup to his lips. He frowns, and a deep crease runs between his eyebrows. “So, what kind of agent has blue hair?” He asks you.   
  
      “Oh, I’m not an agent.” You say, surprised. A dawning look of mistrust makes its way across Steve’s features.   
  
      “What are you, then?” He asks. You glance out of the window behind him. It is nearly sunset. If today is _the day,_ and you imagine that it is, then you have only a few hours before the events of the film begin.   
  
      “The girl who knew too much.” You say, rising from your seat. “I have a feeling they are going to want to see me soon.” You say raising your eyes heavenward, toward the upper floors of the building where the Agents and Director work. “Word to the wise,” You say, “Take a good look at the files for the Avengers Initiative when you get a chance. Preferably in the next eight hours. You will be glad that you did.”   
  
“Thanks for the tip.” Steve Rogers says. You smile and turn to walk away before catching yourself.   
  
"Oh yeah. Iron Man. Tony Stark. He didn't make the cut, but you should check him out, too. He--"  
  
"He's hard to miss." Steve says, rolling his eyes.   
  
"Yeah. He's kind of a big deal, I guess." You say. "Anyway. He will be important."   
  
You walk away forcing deep lungfulls of air in and out, trying hard to keep from hyperventilating. You had coffee with Captain America, and somehow, you managed not to spill any of it on yourself.  
  
From behind you, you hear Steve ask, "Will be?" 

***

      It happens the moment you close your apartment door. You answer the ringing phone in your living room with a mixture of curiosity and anxiety. The person on the other end has either called the wrong number, which would be awkward and embarrassing, or they meant to call you, which is an intimidating thought in its own right. The latter of these scenarios turns out to be the case.  
  
     “This is Agent Maria Hill.” Yes. Yes it is.   
  
      “Hi?” You say. You could kick yourself.  

       “Ms. Powell, Your presence has been requested on the helicopter pad immediately.” 

      “Really?” You ask. “I thought I wasn’t supposed to leave the building.” You say.

      “You have permission to leave under extenuating circumstances. This would be one of those circumstances.” 

      “Okay. I’ll be right there.” You say, hanging up the phone, practically out the door already. 

      Ducking out of the helicopter, all you can think is _Oh God what if I decapitate myself before the movie even starts?_  
  
Then the movie starts.


	3. Chapter Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Okay, you think as the car goes speeding down the tunnel while the ground buckles and shakes beneath it, you could put “has participated in an armed car chase” on your resume now."

      “How bad is it?” Director Fury asks. It takes every ounce of self-possession that you have not run ahead of them into the building which gives great shudders and emits huge, crushing, thuds at random intervals. Agents Coulson and Hill walk a couple of steps ahead of you, along with Director Fury, getting him up to date on the situation.   
  
      Lights and sirens go off around you. An emergency evacuation has been ordered. That was your call. You take in the scene, the way the workers are saving what can be saved in a calm and orderly fashion and making for the exits. _Yeah,_ you think to yourself, _I did that. That was me._  
  
      You reach the lab where the Tesseract is being held. The NASA scientists don’t glance up at you. Dr. Eric Selvig looks tired, but he continues his work, taking measurements. The Tesseract itself is more than just a shiny cube of blue jell-o. It is myth made real. You feel its energy like the effect of a strong cup of coffee all at once, just from being near it. You keep your distance. You know what this thing can do.  
  
      “She’s misbehaving.” He tells Fury, regarding the Tesseract’s sudden, unprecedented releases of energy. You nod in agreement, catching Dr. Selvig’s eye. “I don’t believe we have had the pleasure,” he says.   
  
      “Dr. Selvig, this is Ms. Powell. She is the reason for your new protective detail. Clint Barton appears to fly down from his vantage point high above the scene to stand next to Dr. Selvig.   
  
      “This the girl?” Barton asks Director Fury, nodding to you. A particularly strong wave of energy emanates from the Tesseract, sending the impact all the way through the foundation of the building.   
  
      “What do you make of this?” Fury asks Selvig, gesturing to the cube.   
  
      “What do you think, Agent Barton?” You ask. Clint shows no sign of surprise that you already know his name. His attention is fully fixed on the cube.   
  
      “If anyone’s been tampering with the cube, it hasn’t been at this end.” He says.   
  
      “At this end?” Fury repeats.  
  
      “It’s a doorway.” He says. “To the other end of space, right? Doors open from both sides.” He shrugs.   
  
      “That’s an astute observation.” Dr. Selvig says, looking to you. “Are you the expert?” He asks “Do you concur?”   
  
      “Expert?” You turn to Fury.   
  
      “What else was I supposed to call the girl who knows everything?” He asks, raising his hands in frustration. The Tesseract chooses that moment to give off another wave of energy.   
  
      “Right. Well, it doesn’t matter what I am, Hawkeye’s right.” You say.   
  
      This is the Uncertainty Principle in effect—your presence here is changing the story. You know what is about to happen next. Loki is bound to show up any moment. He takes out all of the guards in the room, most of the scientists who are now working quietly around you, and then he takes control of Dr. Selvig and Hawkeye against their will. That is how the movie starts. That is how the movie always starts because movies don’t change. This, on the other hand, this could change a lot. You would like for these things not to happen, but the realization hits you like a truck: If the story changes _too_ much, you will not know what happens anymore. All of these thoughts go flashing through your mind just as a surge of light and energy radiate through the room.   
  
      You watch, fixed to the floor, as Loki takes shape. He rises from one knee and the look on his face is menacing and bright. He examines his surroundings, drinking them in, considering each of you in turn. When you watched this for the first time, you were thrilled to see your favorite villain again. You have a lot of feelings about Loki. You could go on for days about his motivation and his character development. When you watched this for the forty-sixth time on your dirty laptop screen, you stopped paying attention to the gravity of this moment. You have long-since stopped thinking of Loki as, well, scary. He is complex, sure. Damaged? Hell yeah. But nightmare material? Not so much. At least, not until you are standing in the same room with him.

      Somewhere, distantly in the back of your mind, perhaps, you hear Fury say “Sir, please put down the spear.” It is possible that you know this is what he will say, and so you just think the words, but no, you see the challenge register on Loki’s face. He grins, reveling in the threat. This is precisely what he came here for. Fury has just welcomed him to Earth in exactly the right way. He told him not to fight, and Loki will always do the opposite of what he is told.   
  
      The action happens all around you in the blink of an eye. It is different from watching the scene. Here, you can feel the blasts of energy fly by you on the way to their targets, taking out the agents with their guns trained on Loki. You feel dizzy and defenseless. There is nowhere to hide and one wrong step could get you taken out before the story really takes off. _No._ You think to yourself. _I am not getting shot yet. I haven’t even met Iron Man._ It is a ridiculous thought, insane even. You force yourself not to give into the silent, hysterical laughter that wants to creep out of your throat.   
  
      At the end of this scene, Loki will have enslaved Dr. Selvig and Hawkeye and that random dude in the background who you never really hear from again. Then he shoots Fury and leaves him for dead. It doesn’t look like you have a lot of options. In the chaos of the gunshots, you throw yourself over sideways and lie motionless on the ground. Roll over. Play dead. Good girl. You keep your eyes closed, listening intently.  
  
      “…and I am burdened with glorious purpose.” You hear Loki declare, his voice regal and authoritative. Damn it! You think to yourself. You were too distracted and you didn’t catch the whole line. That stings as much as the scrape on your elbow from the fall to the ground. The banter back and forth swishes through your brain. It is like hearing it for the first time and the thousandth.   
  
      Then the gunshot sounds through the silence and you feel it, although the gun was never aimed at you. That’s the one that takes Fury down. You hear his body hit the ground with a solid thud. A brainwashed Hawkeye and Selvig help Loki pick up the Tesseract and take off. You never felt the injustice of it like you do now. You are burning up with the anger in your veins.   
  
      You open your eyes and glance around, feeling your heart beat in your throat. You swallow and breathe and try to keep yourself in your head. Fury sits up slowly, his face contorted in an expression of pained concentration. You pick yourself up off the ground and rush toward him.   
  
      “Sir, are you alright?” You ask. You know he is alright, but it seems like the kind of question to ask after somebody gets shot.   
  
      “Yes.” Fury says, pulling the bullet that would have killed him off of his vest. “Get to Hill.” He says. “She needs to know about Barton.”   
  
      “Yes, sir.” You say, pride washing over you. Fury gave you an order. This is something you can do. You let out a shaky breath before you leave and say “I’m glad you’re okay.”   
  
      “Now!” He shouts. You start running, feeling a little stupid as you go.  
  
  
      You turn the corner and see Loki and his new minions at the end of the hallway. You hug the wall, alternating between bursts of speed and a slow slouch of a walk, trying to stay just far enough behind them. Sneaking up on spies is not your forte. You don’t have a forte. You’re half-way through college and you haven’t even declared a major yet. You have definitely not been trained for this.   
  
      You turn the corner and keep yourself wedged up tightly behind a pile of crates. Agent Hill asks who Loki is and doesn’t get an answer.   
  
      “Agent.” You whisper. She strolls around the corner as if it is the most normal thing in the world, and there is not a terrified twenty year old with a bright red face and a pounding heart hiding there. “Fury sent me. Barton has turned. Loki has the tesseract.” You say. At that moment, a blast of gunfire tells you that, perhaps you spoke too loudly.   
  
      “Come on.” Hill says, pulling you by the arm toward a jeep. Holy shit, you think. This is a car chase.   
  
      “I don’t drive.” You say, holding your hands up. Hill rolls her eyes.   
  
      “Get in.” She says. More gunfire punctuates her words and the vehicle containing Loki, Barton, Selvig, and the Tesseract is peeling out. You don’t have time to buckle up.  
  
  
      Okay, you think as the car goes speeding down the tunnel while the ground buckles and shakes beneath it, you could put “has participated in an armed car chase” on your resume now. You can hardly watch as Agent Hill swings the jeep around in a beautiful arch and blocks Agent Barton. The cars drive down the road, bumper to bumper. She shoots through the windshield and holds the gun to his face. He shows no reaction at all.   
  
      You slide farther down in your seat when a bullet whizzes past your right ear. The car now drives down the tunnel in reverse, swerving around obstacles that Hill sees in her rearview mirror as she continues to avoid getting shot. You hold onto the dashboard in front of you for dear life. Motion sickness is a thing. You got sick on a rollercoaster once, and it was nothing like this. People don’t usually shoot at each other on roller coasters. All you can think is that, somehow, you get out of this alive, or at least, Agent Hill does. She’s in the movie later.   
  
      The two of you are forced off into a side drive and the building collapses around you. The rubble falls around the car with a crushing sound. It feels like being chewed alive. Agent Hill glances over at you out of the side of her eye and you give her a small thumbs-up. You don’t imagine you could use your words right now, but you know you aren’t hurt. Hill purses her lips, nods, and then smacks the steering wheel letting out a small _umph_ of frustration. She climbs out of the car with a level of grace that you do not achieve as you clamber out behind her. Agent Hill places her hand to her ear.   
  
      “We’re okay. Got a lot of men down here” She says, then looks over her shoulder at you. “Yeah. The kid’s alright. She did fine.” Another pause. “Roger that. I’ll send her up.” Hill says. When Fury signs off, Hill looks you over. “Congratulations.” She says after a moment’s consideration. “You just made level seven.”

***

      After they get you back to New York and your comfortable holding cell of an apartment, you imagine that it will be the waiting, and not the car chases, that will kill you. You sleep in late, almost until noon, and then drag yourself into the hustle and bustle of the building in the early afternoon. At first, you feel like you must have missed something crucial with all that sleep, but there has been no sign of anything from where you are sitting.   
Agent Coulson walks by with a paper bag and you jump at the chance for information.   
  
      “Sir.” You say, following him across the lobby.   
  
      “Yes, Ms. Powell?” He asks, slowing his pace just a little.   
  
     “I need to know if you have spoken to Agent Romanov yet.” You ask. He gives you the tight lipped smile that tells you he can’t talk about this here. “Lunch?” You ask, eyes drifting down to the bag.   
  
      “Actually, yes.” He says.   
  
      “May I suggest that you make a phone call first?” You ask. Coulson continues walking and you join him on the elevator. You find a better place to have this conversation, quiet and removed.   
  
     “Romanov is unavailable at the moment.” Coulson says, shaking his head.   
  
      “Believe me.” You say, leaning in with a conspiratorial smile, “She can handle it. You’re going to call her anyway. The thing is, she needs to know about Barton. S.H.I.E.L.D. owes that to her, Agent Coulson.” You say. Coulson’s expression pinches, and for a moment, you can’t tell if your reasoning has worked, or if he has decided not to listen to you at all. Then he pulls his phone from his pocket and presses the button, a mild expression drifting across his features.   
  
      The call is different from Agent Coulson’s side. He threatens the man on the other end with perfect confidence, rattling off his location and the weapons they have trained on the building as if he is staring at this information on a screen instead of looking at a blank wall. He gets what he wants. He gets the Black Widow on the phone. He tells her that she needs to come in, and then he says what you are not so subtly coaching him to say.   
  
      “Barton’s been compromised.” He tells her. He listens as she decimates the men holding her hostage and calls her mission short. “We’ll brief you on everything when you get back.” He promises. “But first we need you to talk to the big guy.”   
  
      You shake your head and rest your hand on your hip. This is exactly what you expected. It just feels different. You know in a matter of hours, however long it takes her to get from Russia to India, Natasha Romanov will be sitting down with Bruce Banner to ask him to fly back to New York with her. There is blood in the water and the sharks are coming in. You wouldn’t have it any other way.  
  
      “Thank you.” You say to Coulson.   
  
      “Why Barton?” Coulson asks.   
  
      “Why the cello player in Portland?” You ask Coulson. The dawning realization settles over him. Bringing up Coulson’s own personal life feels risky, but there is no other way to explain the relationship between Natasha Romanov and Clint Barton without going into details that are not yours to divulge.    
  
      “Oh.” He says as he gets it. “I didn’t realize they were…”  
  
      “They are colleagues,” you say, “and she has a right to know. That’s all.” You turn to leave Coulson with this information.   
  
      “Ms. Powel,” He says, stopping you in your tracks. “It seems awfully unfair that you know so much about us and we don’t know anything about you.”   
  
      “Believe me,” You shake your head “there is nothing to know.” You stop again at the end of the hallway to turn back to Coulson once more. “But if you want to get to know me, you could try calling me Amanda.” You say. Coulson smiles back at you.  
  
      “I’ll try to keep that in mind.” He says.

***

      There is a gym in the basement. It is next to the room where they kept Captain America after they found him in the ice. There are myriad old fashioned rooms in the basement of this building, done up with retro decorations and discreet, hidden cameras. They were meant to slowly bring Cap back into the world. It didn’t exactly go that way. He ran out into the street and found himself surrounded by the blaring, crass, loudness that is modern America with no transition. He still comes down here every once in a while to punch things. You can hardly blame the guy.   
  
      You walk loudly so as not to startle him, but he is focused. He seems lost in his own head, just wailing away on that poor, unsuspecting line of punching bags. From the looks of it, he has already gone through two (today). You clear your throat and he turns around, bangs dripping with sweat. He must have been down here for a while.   
  
      “You hanging in there?” You ask.   
  
      “I’m here.” He says, shrugging. _Don’t look at his arms, Amanda. Don’t look at—damn it, you looked_.   
  
      “I had my first car chase.” You offer. He smiles just a little, the corner of his mouth going up slightly.   
  
      “How did that go?” he asks.   
  
      “I didn’t wet my pants. That’s about the best I can say for myself.” You say. He laughs, just a little bit. It surprises you to see something so close to happiness in Steve’s eyes. You don’t remember this from the movie. Mostly, you remember his stoic, somber frown.    
  
      “That was about how I felt the first time I chased down a car. Different kind of car chase, I know.” He says. You laugh.  
  
      “Did you have a chance to look up—“  
  
      “The Avengers?” He finishes for you, looking up beyond you to the doorway where you hear footsteps. You turn around to see Director Fury. You experience a sinking feeling in your gut like you have been caught. Instead, Fury looks pleased, or as pleased as he ever does.   
  
      “Good.” He says. “I came down to give you the files on the Avengers Initiative, but I see the Walking Encyclopedia beat me to It.” Fury says, extending a manila folder toward Steve. “Something was stolen from S.H.I.E.L.D. last night.” He says as Steve opens the folder, recognition registering while he reads the dossier of the Tesseract. “You’re familiar?” He asks, although it is not really a question.  
  
      “Should have left it in the ocean.” Steve says. His face has returned to the mask of inexpression that he wears as a soldier, but he says what he thinks, nonetheless. Fury turns to leave, but Cap is not quite done. “Director,” Steve says. Fury turns back around, interested. “Is Ms. Powell on the payroll, or are you just watching her?” he inclines his head toward you. It is a question you would have asked, yourself, if you had the guts. Fury glances at you as if to express his annoyance that he asked while you are standing in the room with them. “She’s good.” Steve says. “She should be working for S.H.I.E.L.D.”  
  
      “Is that a condition of your involvement, Captain?” Fury asks.   
  
      “It is now.” Steve Rogers says.

  
  



End file.
